Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders (36 page)

O
n the nineteenth Leslie Van Houten also asked to have her present attorney, Donald Barnett, dismissed. Keene granted the motion and appointed Marvin Part to be Miss Van Houten’s attorney of record.

Only later would we learn what was happening behind the scenes. Manson had set up his own communications network. Whenever he heard that an attorney for one of the girls had initiated a move on behalf of his client which could conceivably run counter to Manson’s own defense, within days that attorney would be removed from the case. Barnett had wanted a psychiatrist to examine Leslie. Learning of this, Manson vetoed the idea, and when the psychiatrist appeared at Sybil Brand, Leslie refused to see him. Her request for Barnett’s dismissal came immediately after.

Manson’s goal: to run the entire defense himself. In court as well as out, Charlie intended to retain complete control of the Family.

M
anson wanted to represent himself, he told the court, because “lawyers play with people, and I am a person and I don’t want to be played with in this matter.” Most lawyers were only interested in one thing, publicity, Manson said. He’d seen quite a few of them lately and felt he knew what he was talking about. Any attorney previously associated with the DA’s Office was not acceptable to him, he added. He had learned that two other defendants had court-appointed attorneys who were once deputy DAs (Caballero and Part).

Judge Keene explained that many lawyers engaged in the practice of criminal law first gained experience in the office of the District Attorney, the City Attorney, or the U.S. Attorney. Knowing how the prosecution worked was often a benefit to their clients.

M
ANSON
“It sounds good from there, but not from here.”

“Your Honor,” Manson continued, “I am in a difficult position. The news media has already executed and buried me…If anyone is hypnotized, the people are hypnotized by the lies being told to them…There is no attorney in the world who can represent me as a person. I have to do it myself.”

Judge Keene had a suggestion. He would arrange for an experienced attorney to confer with him. Unlike other attorneys to whom Manson had talked, this attorney would have no interest in representing him. His function would be solely to discuss with him the legal issues, and the possible dangers, of defending himself. Manson accepted the offer and, after court, Keene arranged for Joseph Ball, a former president of the State Bar Association and former senior counsel to the Warren Commission, to meet with Manson.

M
anson talked to Ball and found him “a very nice gentleman,” he told Judge Keene on the twenty-fourth. “Mr. Ball probably understands maybe everything there is to know about law, but he doesn’t understand the generation gap; he doesn’t understand free love society; he doesn’t understand people who are trying to get out from underneath all of this…”

Ball, in turn, found Manson “an able, intelligent young man, quiet-spoken and mild-mannered…” Although he had attempted to persuade him, without success, that he could benefit from the services of a skilled lawyer, Ball was obviously impressed with Manson. “We went over different problems of law, and I found he had a ready understanding…Remarkable understanding. As a matter of fact, he has a very fine brain. I complimented him on the fact. I think I told you that he had a high IQ. Must have, to be able to converse as he did.” Manson “is not resentful against society,” Ball said. “And he feels that if he goes to trial and he is able to permit jurors and the Court to hear him and see him, they will realize he is not the kind of man who would perpetrate horrible crimes.”

After Ball had finished, Judge Keene questioned Manson for more than an hour about his knowledge of courtroom procedure, and the possible penalties for the crimes with which he was charged, throughout almost begging him to reconsider his decision to defend himself.

M
ANSON
“For all my life, as long as I can remember, I’ve taken your advice. Your faces have changed, but it’s the same court, the same structure…All my life I’ve been put in little slots, Your Honor. And I went along with it…I have no alternative but to fight you back any way I know because you and the District Attorney and all the attorneys I have ever met are all on the same side. The police are on the same side and the newspapers are on the same side and it’s all pointed against me, personally…No. I haven’t changed my mind.”

T
HE
C
OURT
“Mr. Manson, I am imploring you not to take this step; I am imploring you to either name your own attorney, or, if you are unable to do so, to permit the Court to name one for you.”

Manson’s mind was made up, however, and Judge Keene finally concluded: “It is, in this Court’s opinion, a sad and tragic mistake that you are making by taking this course of action, but I can’t talk you out of it.…Mr. Manson, you are your own lawyer.”

I
t was Christmas Eve. I worked until 2
A.M
., then took the next day off.

A call from LAPD. A cook at the Brentwood Country Club says that the chief steward there, Rudolf Weber, was the man in front of whose house the Tate killers stopped to hose off about 1
A.M
. on August 9.

Bringing along a police photographer to take photos of the area, Calkins and I went to see Weber at his home at 9870 Portola Drive, a side street just off Benedict Canyon Drive, less than two miles from the Tate residence. As I listened to Weber’s story, I knew he was going to be a good witness. He had an excellent memory, told exactly what he remembered, didn’t try to fill in what he did not. He was unable to make a positive identification from the large batch of photos I showed him, but his general description fitted: all four were young (Watson, Atkins, Krenwinkel, and Kasabian were all in their early twenties), the man was tall (Watson was six feet one), and one of the girls was short (Kasabian was five feet one). His description of the car—which had never appeared in the press—was accurate down to the faded paint around the license plates. How was it he could recall such a detail about the car but not their faces? Very simple: when he followed the four down to the car, he turned the flashlight on the license plate; when he saw them on the street, near the hose, they were in the dark.

Weber had a surprise—a big one. Following the incident, thinking perhaps the four people had committed a burglary in the area, he had written down the license number of the vehicle. He had since thrown the piece of paper away—my heart sank—but he still remembered the number. It was GYY 435.

How in the world could he remember that? I asked him. In his job as steward he had to remember numbers, he replied.

Anticipating that this point might be brought up by the defense, I asked Weber if he had read the Atkins story. He said he hadn’t.

On returning to my office, I checked the impound report on John Swartz’ car: “1959 Ford 4 Dr., Lic. # GYY 435.”

W
hen I interviewed Swartz, the former Spahn ranch hand told me that Manson and his girls often borrowed the car; in fact, he had taken the back seat out so they could fit the big boxes in when they went on their “garbage runs.” With the exception of one particular night, they always asked his permission before taking the car.

What night was that? Well, he wasn’t exactly sure of the date, but it was a week, two weeks before the raid. What happened that particular night? Well, he’d already gone to bed in his trailer when he heard his car start up. He got up and looked out the window just in time to see the taillights pulling away. Any idea what time that was? Well, he usually went to bed around ten or thereabouts, so it was after that. When he woke up the next morning, Swartz said, the car was back. He’d asked Charlie why they’d taken the car without asking, and Charlie had told him that he hadn’t wanted to wake him up.

Any other nights during this same period when Manson borrowed the car? I inquired. Yeah, one other night Charlie, the girls, and some other guys—he was unable to remember which girls and guys—said they were going downtown to play some music.

Swartz was unable to date this particular night except that it was around the same time they took the car without permission. Before or after? He couldn’t remember. Consecutive nights? Couldn’t remember that either.

I asked Swartz if he had ever belonged to the Family. “
Never
,” he very emphatically replied. One time, after the raid, and after Shorty had dropped from sight, he and Manson had an argument, Swartz said. Charlie had told him, “I could kill you any time. I could come into your sleeping quarters any time.” After that Swartz quit his job at Spahn, where he had been working off and on since 1963, and got a job at another ranch.

What did he know about Shorty’s disappearance? Well, a week or two after the raid Shorty just wasn’t around any more. He’d asked Charlie if he knew where he was, and Charlie had told him, “He’s gone to San Francisco about a job. I told him about a job there.” He didn’t exactly feel confident with that explanation, he said, not after having noticed that Bill Vance and Danny DeCarlo each had one of Shorty’s .45 caliber pistols.

Shorty would never willingly part with those matched pistols, Swartz said, no matter how hard up he was.

U
nder the Constitution of the United States, extradition is mandatory, not discretionary.
*
When a state has a valid and duly executed indictment—as we did in the case of Charles “Tex” Watson—there is no legitimate reason why the accused shouldn’t be extradited forthwith.

Certain powers in Collin County, Texas, felt otherwise. Bill Boyd, Watson’s attorney, told the press he’d fight to keep his client in Texas if it meant going all the way to the United States Supreme Court.

Bill Boyd’s father, Roland Boyd, was a powerful southern politician of the Sam Rayburn school. He was also the campaign manager of a candidate who was running for attorney general of Texas. It was his candidate, Judge David Brown, who heard the Watson extradition request, and granted delay after delay after delay to young Boyd’s client.

Bill Boyd was himself an aspiring politician. Tom Ryan, the local DA, told a Los Angeles
Times
reporter: “I’ve heard it said that Bill wants to be President of the United States. And after that he wants to be God.”

Time
magazine reported: “As swarms of reporters begged for jailhouse interviews with his client, Boyd began dropping ten-gallon hints that Watson’s family might go along ‘if the offer is substantial.’ One photographer offered $1,800. ‘We need lots and lots of money,’ retorted Boyd. How much? ‘About $50,000,’ said the lawyer. Though the press balked, Boyd still has not lowered his client’s price—and he is quite sure that eventually he will get it.”

Meanwhile, Tex apparently wasn’t suffering unduly. We heard, from various sources, that his one-man cell was comfortably furnished, that he had his own record player and records. His vegetarian meals were cooked by his mother. He also wore his own clothing, which she laundered. And he was not completely lacking company, his cell adjoining that occupied by the female prisoners.

T
hough the extradition of Watson was proving difficult, there were indications that Katie Krenwinkel might decide to return voluntarily, on Manson’s orders. Squeaky, acting as Charlie’s liaison, had sent Krenwinkel a barrage of letters and telegrams, photocopies of which we received from the Mobile, Alabama, authorities: “Together we stand…If you go extra is good…”

I also presumed that the togetherness referred to in each of the messages meant that Manson intended to conduct a joint, or umbrella, defense.

Since the Family had contacted Krenwinkel but, as far we could determine, not Watson, I carried my conjecture a step further, guessing that when the case went to trial Manson and the girls would try to put the hat on Watson.

Presuming they would try to prove that Tex, not Charlie, was the mastermind behind the Tate-LaBianca murders, I began collecting every bit of evidence I could find on the Manson-Watson relationship, and the role each played in the Family.

W
hen interrogated in Los Angeles, sixteen-year-old Dianne Lake had been threatened with the gas chamber. And had said nothing. Inyo County Deputy DA Buck Gibbens and investigator Jack Gardiner tried kindness, something Dianne had known little of during her life.

Dianne’s parents had “turned hippy” while she was still a child. By age thirteen she was a member of the Hog Farm commune, and had been introduced to group sex and LSD. When she joined Manson, just before her fourteenth birthday, it was with her parents’ approval.

Apparently not finding Dianne submissive enough, Manson had, on various occasions: punched her in the mouth; kicked her across a room; hit her over the head with a chair leg; and whipped her with an electrical cord. Despite such treatment, she stayed. Which implies something tragic about the alternatives available to her.

After her return to Independence, Gibbens and Gardiner had a number of lengthy conversations with Dianne. They convinced her that other people did care about her. Gardiner’s wife and children visited her regularly. Hesitantly at first, Dianne began telling the officers what she knew. And, contrary to what she had told the grand jury, she knew a great deal. Tex, for example, had admitted to her that he’d stabbed Sharon Tate. He did it, he told her, because Charlie had ordered the killings.

On December 30, Sartuchi and Nielsen interviewed Dianne in Independence. She told them that one morning, maybe a week to two weeks before the August 16 raid, Leslie had come into the back house at Spahn with a purse, a rope, and a bag of coins. She hid them under a blanket. When, a short time later, a man arrived and knocked on the door, Leslie hid herself. She told Dianne the man had given her a ride from Griffith Park and she didn’t want him to see her.

The two LaBianca detectives exchanged looks. Griffith Park was not far from Waverly Drive.

After the man left, Leslie came out from under the blanket and Dianne helped her count the money. There was about eight dollars in change, in a plastic sack.

Because of Leno LaBianca’s coin collection, the detectives were very interested in that bag of change.

Q.
“O.K., you say you helped Leslie count the money or coins. Did you see any coins in there from another country?”

 

A.
“Canada.”

 

Leslie then built a fire and burned the purse (Dianne recalled it as being brown leather), some credit cards (one was an oil company card), and the rope (it was about 4 feet long and 1 to 1½ inches in diameter). Then she took off her own clothing and burned it too. Had Dianne noticed any blood spots on the clothing? No.

Later, in late August or early September, while they were at Willow Springs, about ten miles from Barker Ranch, Leslie told Dianne that she had stabbed someone who was already dead. Was it a woman or a man? Leslie hadn’t said.

Leslie also told Dianne that the murder had occurred someplace near Griffith Park, near Los Feliz; that someone had written something in blood on the refrigerator door; and that she, Leslie, then wiped everything so there would be no prints, even wiping things they hadn’t touched. When they left, they took some food with them. What kind of food? A carton of chocolate milk.

Had Leslie said anything about the Tate murders? Leslie had told her she wasn’t in on that.

Sartuchi attempted to get more details. The only other thing Dianne could recall was that there had been a big boat outside the house. But she couldn’t remember whether Leslie had told her about the boat or whether she had read it in the paper. She did, however, remember Leslie describing it.

Prior to this, the only evidence we had linking Leslie Van Houten with the LaBianca murders was the testimony of Susan Atkins. Since Susan was an accomplice, this would not stand up in court without independent corroboration.

Dianne Lake supplied it.

There was a question, however, as to whether Dianne would be able to testify at the trial. She was obviously emotionally disturbed. She had occasional LSD flashbacks. She feared Manson, and she loved him. At times she thought he was inside her head. Shortly after the first of the year the Inyo County court arranged for her to be sent to Patton State Hospital, in part for treatment for her emotional problems, in part because the court didn’t know what else to do with her.

A
dditions to my list of Things to Do: Check to see if any LaBianca credit cards are still missing. When doctors permit, interview Dianne; find out if anyone else present during back-house incident or Willow Springs conversation. Check with Katsuyama to see if any of the LaBianca stab wounds were post-mortem, i.e., inflicted after death. Ask Suzanne Struthers if her mother had a brown leather purse and if it is missing. Ask Suzanne and/or Frank Struthers if either Rosemary or Leno liked chocolate milk.

Tiny details, but they could be important.

T
he “Harold” whose letter I’d found in the Tate tubs
was
the same “Harold” Susan Atkins had mentioned in her grand jury testimony. His full name was Harold True, and he was a student. When LAPD found him, I was busy with another interview, so Aaron volunteered to talk to him.

From True, who remained friendly to Manson, visiting him several times at the County Jail, Aaron learned that he had met Charlie in March of 1968, while the Family was living in Topanga Canyon. The next day Charlie and about ten others (including Sadie, Katie, Squeaky, and Brenda, but not Tex or Leslie) had shown up at 3267 Waverly Drive, the house True shared with three other youths, and stayed overnight. Manson had visited him maybe four or five times there, before True and the others moved out in September 1968. While they were still living at Waverly, True said, neighbors had frequently complained about their noisy parties.

Aaron hadn’t asked True if the LaBiancas had been among the neighbors who complained, and I made a note to check this. When I did, I learned that True couldn’t recall having ever seen the LaBiancas; as best he could remember, 3301 Waverly Drive was vacant all the time they were living there.

Going back to the LaBianca investigative reports, I saw that Leno and Rosemary hadn’t moved into 3301 Waverly Drive until November 1968, which was after True and the others moved out.

I’d been looking for a possible incident involving the LaBiancas and the Family. I didn’t find it. We were left with two facts, however: Manson had been to the house next door to the LaBianca residence on five or six occasions, and he had been as far as the gate to the Tate residence at least once.